


Forget All You Know

by Kittenbedtimestories



Category: Non-specific Phantom of the Opera, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23531788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenbedtimestories/pseuds/Kittenbedtimestories
Summary: "Right hearted man in the darkness...you set her free in the night...I grant you this gift for your kindness, a chance for life in light..."The Angel in Hell knows that his time has come, and yet he still dreams of his Christine, dreaming that life had not been so cruel to him as to assign him this face, this life of pain and misery.Somehow this dream feels so very real.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	1. At The Tomb

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on Wattpad under the same account name.]

Erik was alone. And this was not unusual. Indeed, he was often alone, almost always. But for the past few months, Erik had lived entirely on his own.

But the past few months had transpired, and he had seen the woman he loved run into the arms of another man. He had done terrible, terrible things to keep her by his side, under his wing, but in the end...he had let her go. For who could cage her? How could he keep her in the dark beside him when she deserved the sun and moon above, and a man she could look on with joy? These months, that choice, had taken their toll on him, and now he stood alone, in a midnight-shrouded graveyard, bells tolling quietly from the small church, and in the distance, the faint glow and chaotic noise of the Opera Populaire, ablaze in the night. He could never return.

Before him was the grave of one Monsuir Daae, the famous Swedish violinist. Erik gazed down at the weathered stone with as much of a wry smile as his barely-half-of-a-face could muster, cold as it was to be freed from the mask for the first time out of doors, even hidden under his long cloak hood.

"Monsuir." His voice came softly, barely a whisper. "You have much to be proud of. Your girl...your child...your Christine..." He choked on the name, its sound stinging his tongue. Taking a deep breath, he continued on a sigh. "She was indeed gifted with your musical prowess."

He couldn't bear to look forward anymore, and dropped his eyes to the ground, his already imperfect vision on his right side even further impaired by the salted drops that were falling onto the snow.

"Her Angel watched over her for as long as he could. Her Angel gave her everything that you had no time to give. And her voice..." He managed the briefest of smiles, wracked with pain. "Well...now it soars. And her Angel will not sing songs in her head any longer."

The snow crunched heavily under his knees as he dropped, hands falling to his sides, staring at nothing now.

"No...now she is a woman...a wife. And I...I am alone. As I have always been."

He sank lower to the ground, glad of the numbing chill of the night on his exhausted bones. Had he been so weak when he'd set out? Had he been so fragile from her departure that he could so easily become lethargic in the snowy bank?

As he slumped up against the stone, he thought he could hear something, someone... But he was too weak to move now, and growing more so by the moment.

The voice grew stronger, not distinctly masculine or feminine, but high and soft in his fading awareness.

_"Right hearted man in the darkness...you set her free in the night...I grant you this gift for your kindness, a chance for life in light..."_


	2. Upon Awaking

Erik woke slowly, foggily. Something was very wrong...

The graveyard...the voice...Christine...

He sat bolt upright, instinctively cowering from the light of the window though it was dimmed by thick velvet curtains. In glancing around him, he found more questions, and no answers.

He appeared to be sitting up in a richly made four-poster bed, dressed in black and red silks to match the themes of the rest of the small apartment. There was an arched doorway leading from the sleeping chamber to the main room, which was just as darkly beautiful, and contained a sofa, an organ, and easel with a half-finished painting of what was perhaps going to be a Parisian skyline. By the door was a large ornate mirror, flanked on the other side by a coat rack bearing a long-tailed black coat and a tall hat to match.

Glancing down at himself through his hand, Erik was amazed to find that he was clad in black silk sleeping clothes in the English style, monogrammed EJ over the chest pocket.

Something else was wrong...something was very wrong...

His vision. On his right side.

He could see.

Disbelieving, Erik lifted a hand to his face, moving very slowly and gingerly. His fingertips barely touched his cheek.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he leapt from the bed, heart pounding against his ribs as he bounded toward the mirror. He pulled up short, staring at the ground and panting, one hand still on his face, covering the right side. Steadying himself as well as he could, he closed his eyes and lifted his head so that he knew he was facing the mirror head-on. He took a deep breath, then another, and slowly opened his eyes, daring to look.

Before him stood a young man, perhaps in his twenties, with skin as pale as snow lying flawlessly across a thin, handsome face. His nose was small but of a Roman nature, and his cheeks were high and fine. Dark hair fell in a frame to his shoulders, raven in the morning glow. Bright golden eyes widened in shock.

Erik sank slowly to the floor before the mirror, unable to take his eyes off of the reflection and perhaps not fully aware that he had sunk. His hands trailed over the pale skin of his face, then touched the mirror as if to discover some trick. But he found none. His voice slowly returned to him.

"Not possible...no, impossible, I...I'm dreaming, I..."

He looked around himself, seeming to realize that he'd fallen to the floor, but it didn't seem to bother him. Instead, he looked about in confused awe.

"But this...these are my apartments, then..." He grabbed at the pocket of his pajamas and ran his fingers over the initials. "EJ...Erik...but the last name...I have none..." His eyes scanned over to the window. "But where...?"

The sounds of a rehearsal in progress below him answered that. He was home, the Opera Populaire, but in the upper floors, above the stage. It was impossible because his theater held no upper-floor apartments, but then...perhaps he was no longer in his theater, but a facsimile, in a strange world where he...

He was not a monster here.


	3. He Takes Another Role

"Monsuir Jeandre?"

Someone knocked smartly on the door, making him jump. The voice was familiar to him.

Erik stood slowly, one hand still on his face, and went dazedly to the door, hesitating with his hand on the handle.

They won't be frightened...

Suddenly he glanced back at the mirror. He was in pajamas, no, this wouldn't do. Casting around, he found a dark crimson robe, and fetched it up and fastened it tightly around him. He forced himself to stand tall, stealing another glance at the mirror, and attempting a small smile. It looked so alien on him that he dropped it. Taking a steadying breath, he reached for the handle again, and pulled the door open.

"Madame Giry?"

"Monsuir," she nodded, then frowned. He flinched slightly. "Is there something wrong?" She nodded toward the hand still resting on his face, which he quickly dropped though his stomach fell with it. She smiled slightly. "Did monsuir perhaps stand too hastily?"

She thought he'd injured himself. She cared whether he had.

Finding his voice, he attempted simple charm and couldn't help but smile. "I am only human, madame. What calls you here?"

"Your new managers await their patron."

"Of course," he said, trying to hide the choked joy in his voice. If Madame Giry noticed, to her credit, she showed no sign as she smiled at him again and turned to leave. Over he shoulder, she called, "I think perhaps not in night dress, Monsuir."

He chuckled slightly as he closed the door, not believing anything. It turned into full blown laughter as he swung around the room, searching out clothing but not focusing on it particularly hard. In the end, he decided on a simple black suit not unlike his usual attire, but with no cape or hat, and no mask. Every time he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his laughter started anew, peals of it rolling from his lips until there were happy tears in his eyes. He wiped them as he stood before the mirror, for the first time ever admiring his reflection, tilting his head this way and that to see his new face from every angle. The longer he looked, the more he realized that this was indeed _his_ face, the one he should have known. He let out a final bark of laughter, and exclaimed, "Thank you, Angels! Oh, thank you!"

Knowing his theater as he did, it took him almost no time to discover where he was, an upper west wing that had been prop storage, to his knowledge, before. He was slightly giddy, but at the same time slightly wary of this strange miracle, this world that seemed to know him as a man. But he couldn't find anything amiss, other than his normality. Every time he met someone on his way down to the grand stairs, he shifted slightly, but caught himself, and began to smile and nod instead of shrink away. He got a few strange looks, but each with a smile, as if the oddest thing about him was his joy, which, he supposed, now it was.

He was almost leaping by the time he reached the managers, and smiled to himself at the sight of them. Perhaps this would be greater fun than he'd imagine. He was their _patron_. Their _friend_.

"I assume, Monsuirs Feirmon and Andre?"

"Monsuir Jeandre?"

"Please," he grinned, "Erik. Welcome." He bowed low. "I am very please to make your acquaintances."

"Oh but Monsuir-ah, Erik, the pleasure is all ours! To meet the architect and composer in residence of the Opera Populaire! To work so closely with him!" He smiled as he straightened and was greeted with handshakes. Architect was he still? And composer? This was good, this was amazing. He was famed, _loved_.

"Shall we continue, then?" Feirmon gestured to the auditorium, and Erik extended a hand. "Please, after you."

Stepping in, he froze.

Hannibal was in full swing of final dress, with papier mache elephants and all. There was Senora Carlotta, strutting proudly about the stage and singing, and here came Piange, as always mildly out of tune.

And then the dancers stepped forward. And there she was.

Christine Daae.

They strode up to the front of the stage, and Madame Giry quieted the actors. The managers introduced themselves, and proceeded into a long-winded speech about their excitement and dedication and so and such, but he had no mind for any of it.

His eyes were only for Christine. Oh, how young she seemed! Talking and laughing with the younger Meg Giry, seemingly paying just as little mind as he was to the managers, and instead making fun of them for Meg's amusement. She looked so free and happy, it made his heart turn in his chest.

And then she glanced toward him.

His first instinct was to cover his face, but he was too shocked that she was there, and had seen him, that he couldn't seem to raise his hand. Instead, he simply stared dumbly, terrified. She was going to scream, to run, he was going to revert to his broken form, he knew it.

For a moment, nothing. The world was frozen.

And then she smiled shyly.

Simultaneously thanking every deity there ever was and kicking himself for the idiotic blank look on his face, Erik just managed to gain the motor control to smile in return, even going so far as to nod slightly, nervously. He hoped she couldn't hear his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest to her, and nearly lost his footing when she blushed, actually blushed, and nodded in return.

It wasn't until Andre called his name for the third time that he even realized he was being spoken to, and jumped, chagrined. But even as he spoke to the actors, the words coming smoothly despite his nerves and shock, his eyes flicked back to Christine, who giggled slightly, eyes glued to him even as Meg nudged her and teased.


	4. They Are Properly Acquainted

This time around, there was no Opera Ghost to scare away Carlotta. It was simple vanity. She wasn't paid enough, and was "assulted" by (having an affair with) a stage hand, who was immediately sacked. But it wasn't enough to retain her, and she stormed from the stage.

"Surely there's an understudy?!"

"Understudy?! SENORA CARLOTTA HAS NO UNDERSTUDY! WE HAVE NO SHOW!"

"Perhaps," Erik interjected softly. Even without his intimidating appearance, his voice carried even without volume, and everyone fell to silence. "Perhaps there is another who has learned the role in secret, longing for a chance to sing." His eyes were locked on Christine, who jumped in shock as he stepped toward her. Meg pushed her forward.

"M-Monsuir?"

"Miss...?" He took her hand so gently, trying not to shake as he did so, but years of showmanship kept him steady. Christine blushed.

"Daae, sir. Christine Daae."

"Christine..." He half smiled, on his left side. "Could you sing it?"

"I...I c-could, sir...th-that is, I-I know it..."

"Then Christine..." He stepped back, gesturing to the accompanist, and speaking up so that the room could hear him, so that Paris could hear him. "Sing for me."

And she stepped up to the piano. And sang for him, smiling at him for encouragement.

Even without his guidance, he thought foggily as he listened to her, she had the voice of an Angel.

The show was a beautiful success, and Christine was adored. Erik's were the loudest applause and shouts of "Brava! Brava! Bravisimo!" His rose was the one that she caught, all the way from Box 5, smelling it happily and bowing in his direction.

And now he stood before her dressing room door, having dismissed the managers. Another rose was concealed in the trembling hand behind his back. Breathing as deeply as he could, though it wasn't enough, he raised a hand to knock, and only hesitated a moment before doing so, breathing through the door, "Miss Daae?"

"Who is it?"

"It is...Monsuir Jeandre. May I...?"

"Oh monsuir!" His heart leapt into his throat. She was excited to see him. "Yes, of course! Do please come in!"

He turned the handle and entered, shyly proffering the rose, all the confidence he'd had on stage earlier that day gone. She was resplendent in her dressing gown, and surrounded by admirer's gifts. Nervous as he was, he couldn't stop a wide smile, and was shocked anew when she returned it.

Christine stood and crossed the room to him, offering her hand as she took the rose. He lifted it shakily to his lips and pressed it slowly to them as she curtsied.

"Did you enjoy the performance, Monsuir?"

"Please," he managed quietly, "please call me Erik."

"Erik..." The sound of his name on her tongue almost overwhelmed him.

"I-I...I very much en-enjoyed it, Miss Daae."

"If you are to be Erik," she teased, making him shudder slightly, "then call me by my name. Christine."

"Christine...Christine..." He let out a breath of laughter, but it died in his throat as he smiled at her. Coughing slightly to cover it, he began again, "You sing like an Angel, Christine."

"Sir you are too kind." Her voice was breathless and her eyes were on the floor.

"I can imagine perhaps that you sang for me then."

"You did ask me to, this morning."

"Have I been in your thoughts so long as these hours, miss?" He managed to play off his awe with a smile, hoping he appeared as debonair as he was attempting. Apparently he did, for he elicited a giggle. This gave him confidence and he gestured to the seats by her vanity, the mirror he'd known so well. They sat, together, on this side of it. It was indeed very odd.

"I have come for another reason, Christine, than to offer my compliments." She raised her eyebrows as he looked away, toward the ceiling. "I am myself quite skilled in music."

"I am aware, sir. I am...quite the fan of your compositions. Such excellent Soprano lines."

He smiled. His next words were quiet, barely a whisper.

"I would, if you would allow me...like to...offer my tutelage."

"But monsuir...Erik, I have no money to pay you-"

"I want no payment," he said, rather more harshly than he had intended. More calmly, he continued, "I would do it without charge...if only to hear you sing."

"Sing for you, you mean."

"I do." He finally managed to face her, matching her bright blue eyes with his own amber ones. She gasped slightly at the intensity behind them. "Christine, I..."

But he couldn't say it. Not now. She didn't know him.

"I beg you. Let me be your teacher."

She took his hand in her own, and his eyes followed it up to her chest, then quickly flicked back up to her face, her smile.

"I would be honored, Erik, to learn from you."


	5. All I Ask Of You

"If you were to try to breathe from here, perhaps." Erik placed a hand low on Christine's stomach to demonstrate.

They had been meeting daily for lessons for nearly two months now. And even outside of their lessons, they spent countless hours together. It amused her, Erik found, to show him around the theater, and later, around Paris. He had balked at the idea at first, but seeing that she couldn't understand why, eventually consented. And now he had seen more of his home city than he had ever seen before. They spent long afternoons in public parks, strolling about and talking, about her work and his, about their hobbies and pastimes. He had mentioned once that he was a painter, and she had begged him to paint something for her, so he had taken an easel with them one day to a park, and painted as they talked, eventually giving her a small picture of a rose still blooming on the bush. She had jumped for joy at it, and it had been the first time she had embraced him, thanking him profusely. It was all he could do to remain standing.

Every night he went to bed in total awe, and fear that tomorrow, he would wake, disfigured and abandoned once more. But every morning, he awoke and rushed to the mirror to find his face, though now slightly less thin, primarily unchanged.

And now, they were mid-lesson, the morning before the annual masquerade, and she was in his arms again.

"Erik, perhaps you could demonstrate. You know that I always do better when you do."

"I think that's just your ploy to make me sing for you, Christine," Erik chided smilingly, and she laughed.

"I am not the only angelic voice in the opera house, Monsuir!"

"You flattering child," he sighed, shaking his head with a laugh, "but I acquiesce, of course." He sat at the piano and played through the simple melody again, singing over it quietly but with all the power he wanted her to have. After a few bars, he faded out but continued to play into the silence. Christine sighed, sinking onto the bench beside him, so that she was sitting close enough to touch him, but not quite doing so.

"You really do have such a talent, Erik. Why do you not take the stage?"

He almost laughed, but it died in his throat, so instead he smiled sadly. "My dear Christine, I cannot."

"But you would be such an actor! You have the dramatic flair for it," she nudged him playfully, earning a real laugh this time, if a short-lived one.

"Oh...perhaps one day. But not soon. I prefer to see you shine."

He began to play a different tune, humming along as his eyes closed and he fell into the music, as he often had done before. For a few moments, Christine studied the melody, then she began to sing softly.

_"Father once spoke of an Angel...I used to dream he'd appear...Now as we sing, I am certain, that my Angel's here..."_

He joined her after a moment's hesitation, picking up as she left off.

_"Here in this room, you call me softly, calling me from my hiding. Somehow I know I never left you, I, your unseen genius."_

_"Angel of Music, guide and guardian, lend to me your glory. Angel of Music, hide no longer, secret and strange Angel..."_

Their unison ended as he opened his eyes to meet hers, blurred through a haze of tears that he was quick to wipe away. He felt her hand on his arm.

"Erik, what is it? Why do you cry?"

He smiled softly. "Have you forgotten your angel?"

"I could never forget my angel, but until now he had no name." There was concern in her voice. He sighed at the words.

"Christine..." He took her hands suddenly, sliding off of the stool to kneel beside her. She blinked in surprise. "Christine, my angel..."

"Erik?"

He was silent for a moment, almost willing her to remember the life she'd never known, the sacrifices and mistakes he'd never made. Then he sang.

_"Say you'll share with me...one love, one lifetime...save me, lead me from my solitude...Say you'll need me with you here, beside you..."_

A hand flew to her mouth as she realized what he was asking.

 _"Anywhere you go, let me go too!"_ He sang desperately, then more quietly, _"Christine..."_ He changed the melody.

_"You alone can make my song take flight....help me make the music of the night..."_

Even as he trailed off, she was nodding, sobbing out a yes. And he swept her up into a tight embrace, swinging her around with a strangled laugh. Her laughter joined his as they danced for a few moments, and then they were still and smiling into each others' tear-stained eyes. His hand ghosted across the side of her face, down her neck, and he followed it for a moment with his eyes. Looking back at hers, he sang the words he'd been holding back for so long.

_"Christine, I love you."_

She pulled his hand up to her lips, kissing his palm before joining in with his song.

_"Love me, that's all I ask of..."_

This time, he cut them off, as he kissed her, at long, long last.


	6. Epilogue

It was morning in the graveyard when Madame Giry found his body, prone over the grave she'd known he would flee to. It hurt her to see him like this, and even as she knelt to check for a pulse, she knew she would find nothing.

She had him taken in secret back to the opera house, and saw that he was buried beneath it, in the catacombs. She saw too that the passageways to his chambers were sealed, and that all of her accomplices were handsomely paid not to speak of it again. She contemplated writing to Miss Daae, of late the Vicontess de Chagne, but decided against it, thinking it better that she did not know.

It was not until many years later, when a young French writer was researching the incident of the chandelier, that Madame Giry every spoke of the lonely burial.

"It was terribly sad, monsuir, you must understand. Even though he was murderous, dangerous, and cruel, there was something to be said in the humanity that was left to him, and that was ripped from him by the death mask he wore for a face. He was a genius, monsuir, before he was a madman, and I think, even in his final moments, he was not as terrible as he seemed. Driven to monstrosity, yes, by a world too cruel to want him. But a monster from the start? No. A broken man.

"And I cannot help but to add this, though it seems without significance. Yet it was strange, and you are here to research the bizarre. When I came upon him, that next morning, alone in the graveyard...it seemed almost as if I could hear a voice, as of someone singing far away and very near all at once. And I could almost make it out to be his, impossible as that is, singing to her a final time. It could almost have been her voice in reply, like some distant dream.

"Perhaps he was calling to her a farewell, or asking for forgiveness. Or perhaps he was loved at last, in that distant land of the dead. Perhaps we shall never know."


End file.
